


Normalcy - A Broken Sword & Melancholy at 6:14 pm

by PennamePersona



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Adjust to Change and Talking to Your Shitty Sword, And Also Just Missing A Friend, Gen, Introspection, Not Angst but Maybe Melancholy, Processing Grief, Trying to Figure Out How to Be A Normal Dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 07:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18278687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennamePersona/pseuds/PennamePersona
Summary: “What does it matter to you, Duck?” Beacon asks. “What does one far away warrior’s death matter to a simple park ranger who made it clear that he never wanted to be a part of this in the first place?”Duck closes his eyes, breathes in, and holds that breath.“She was my friend, Beacon.”





	Normalcy - A Broken Sword & Melancholy at 6:14 pm

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I posted something just because, and I actually now have carpal tunnel, so those long pauses are probably going to continue being a thing, but I've been relistening to Amnesty and jesus fuck do I love Duck Newton! I wanted to capture what might go through the head of someone who lost not only invulnerability that he was used to for 20 years, but also someone who was such a major part of his life, if in a bit of a strange way. Hope y'all like it!

“What if she’s just gone?” 

 

Duck blinks, almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. He glances around his apartment, watches for a moment as the shadows cast by the setting sun flicker across a recently completed model ship on the counter. He was thinking of taking it to the Lodge, setting it near the fireplace in the main lobby, if Mama doesn’t mind. Model making is more of a sometimes hobby for him, but he’s always been proud of the things he makes with his own hands, and it’d be nice to feel like he contributed something nice to the place.

 

“Ah, what’s it matter, anyway,” Duck says, softly. He glances at the clock, watches 6:16 knock over to 6:17, and tries not to feel emotional. 

 

“Talking to yourself again, eh, Duck?” Beacon pipes up from his place on the coffee table. “Be careful not to do that in public, or these charming locals might think you’re even less stable than they imagined.”

 

“Fuck off,” Duck says, less harshly than he intends to. 

 

There’s a moment of silence between the two of them, this broken sword from a planet that might be destroyed (is almost certainly destroyed, gone, broken, up in flames), and this man.

 

This normal man.

 

* * *

 

It’s the edge of fall in the Monongahela, summer turning carefully away, the leaves of all these old, timeless trees curling into shocks of brighter, crisper colors. Duck’s always loved this time, has always taken extra moments to appreciate the beauty in the stillness that falls when it’s just the forest, just natural sounds, just creatures being who and what and how they are, and one man watching all of it happen as carefully and respectfully as he can. It’s a welcome piece of consistency after his recent (re)induction to a much more intimidating and deadly world of monsters, magic, and destiny. 

 

“Duck Newton!” 

 

Duck trips over the root of a tree and nearly bashes his face against its trunk before his Chosen instincts kick in to keep him safe. 

 

“Minerva, what the  _ fuck _ ,” He says, turning towards her blue, spectral form. She’s almost transparent in the light of the slowly setting sun.

 

“Have you prepared for today’s training?” She asks, completely undeterred. He didn’t expect otherwise, not from her. Minerva’s always stood her ground, no matter what he threw at her.

 

“I mean, yes and no,” He says, fidgeting slightly with his belt loops before quickly pulling his hand away. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take to get used to having Beacon be there, always, but he suspects he’ll find a way to cut himself on the damn blade before it happens.

 

“Well, pull out your weapon, and let us begin!” Minerva cries, and Duck just sighs.

 

“You never quit, do you, Minnie?” He asks, shaking his head as he pulls Beacon out, hoping beyond hope that his shitty sword won’t rat him out for not practicing.

 

* * *

 

“Is she dead, Beacon?” Duck asks.

 

He doesn’t know if he wants an answer. Hell, he doesn’t know if there’s even a way that Beacon could possibly be aware of whether or not Minerva’s okay, but he’s pretty sure it’d feel worse not to ask.

 

“What does it matter to you, Duck?” Beacon asks. “What does one far away warrior’s death matter to a simple park ranger who made it clear that he never wanted to be a part of this in the first place?”

 

Duck closes his eyes, breathes in, and holds that breath.

 

He thinks about how nervous Minerva’s talk of destiny always made him, about how annoyed he got with her pushiness. He thinks of how goddamn angry she used to make him, sometimes, and of how he doesn’t know whether or not to hate her after what she told him about her past.

 

He lets out the breath and opens his eyes.

 

“She was my friend, Beacon.”

 

* * *

 

It’s 6:15 pm, the day after Minerva said good-bye. Duck’s sitting outside, at the back of the apartments, right where they used to train for the handful of months that he actually took this “destiny” thing seriously.

 

He knew that he felt different. He knew that his powers, his invulnerability, his stamina, were all gone. He could feel their absence just like he felt Beacon’s for 20 years, except this wound is still fresh, and he wasn’t the one who walked away, this time.

 

“How long are you planning on waiting out here?” Beacon asks, his scathing tone completely undamaged by neither his dented blade nor Minerva’s absence. 

 

“Long as I fuckin’ want,” Duck replies, not bothering to glance down at Beacon’s extended form next to him on the ground. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

 

“Oh, I was just so looking forward to going back to my cozy little home in your underwear drawer,” Beacon drawls. “It’s the perfect place to keep a weapon of my stature, Duck, just like every other hiding spot you’ve shoved me into.”

 

“Just for once, Beacon, could you shut up?” Duck asks, glaring at the sword. “Maybe I’m having a bit of a fuckin’ time right now, and silence would be helpful. Ever consider that?”

 

“And why should I care?” Beacon asks. “Why should your feelings affect me?”

 

Duck rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. He glances at his watch. 6:19. 

 

“I don’t know,” He says, picking up Beacon and watching the sword curl back into itself. “Try thinking on it while you’re hanging out in your drawer. Maybe you’ll have some kind of epiphany.”

 

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Beacon mutters, and Duck heads back inside.

 

* * *

 

Duck stares down at his finger with pursed lips, then looks back up at his open medicine cabinet. He glances down again at the small cut and marvels at his lack of any band-aids in his entire apartment.

 

He has a first-aid kit at the ranger’s station. He knows how to use basic medical supplies. But here he is, forty years old, without a single goddamn band-aid in his home.

 

“Fuck,” He mutters, shaking his head. “This ain’t gonna work out too well.”

 

He cleans his finger off and wraps it in some paper towel, figuring that it’s a small enough cut that it won’t matter much right away. He makes a note on the paper on his fridge reserved for shopping lists to “buy some fucking first aid supplies ASAP” and, not for the first time in the past week, wonders how he’s going to manage being just a normal guy.

 

It’s what he always wanted, or so he claimed. But now...now he’s forty, and he got winded yesterday for the first time in at least two decades, and he doesn’t really know what the fuck to do about that.

 

“God, Minnie,” He says, looking out at his kitchen window at the setting sun. “You always have to get the last hit in, huh? Even when you're not here.”

 

* * *

 

It’s 6:30 in the evening, and Duck’s walking through the Monongahela. It’s just like it always is, old trees, the sounds of animals rustling through the forest, and not much else. It’s exactly how he likes it to be.

 

Duck Newton has always been humbled by the Monongahela National Forest. Its vastness, its flora and fauna and uninhibited continuation of its natural life, have always reminded him how small he is. Nothing ever made him feel more like someone worthwhile than tending to a forest that would’ve been fine without him, but that’s better, more healthy, more safe, with him working to preserve it.

 

And now, at forty, completely vulnerable to damage and reality and  _ normalcy _ for the first time since he was a teenager, he’s struck dumb by that humbleness.

 

For so long, he was Duck Newton, Guy Who’s Hard To Kill.

 

Now, he’s Duck Newton, Guy. Duck Newton, Regular Dipshit. Duck Newton, Forty-Year Old Dude With A Skateboard.

 

Duck Newton, regular ass man who, maybe, misses his friend.

 

Duck Newton, normal human man who hopes beyond hope that a warrior alien general lady, who did horrible things in her past, is out there, somewhere, okay. 

 

Alive.

 

Safe.

 

And maybe, hopefully, possibly, someday able to let him know.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are neat, but comments are what really make my day. Some of the stuff you guys leave on my works is gonna stick with me for a very long time, so if you have the time or something you want to say, I promise it's gonna mean a whole lot.
> 
> I take writing requests! Information at: [provisionalpenname on tumblr](https://provisionalpenname.tumblr.com)


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